


Andréa

by honeymoontears



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Falling In Love, Fluff, Longing, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:21:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28283886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeymoontears/pseuds/honeymoontears
Summary: Miranda can't seem to get her thoughts straight. She can't get the smart girl out of her head. Every time, when she sees the cheap copy of the girl in Paris working for her, the memories can't seem to stop. It's stupid to dwell on fading memories. Right?Most nights, she just lies awake and stares at her ceiling or at the ever moving streets of Manhattan. She questions every word she said, every gesture she made. She’ll criticize herself until her thoughts fill her lungs and she suffocates, dreaming of the ever shining bambi eyes.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 2
Kudos: 75





	Andréa

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the song "Alexanda" by Allie X. I changed the name to fit "Andréa"
> 
> listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=06JBhjmbKCI&ab_channel=AllieX-Topic

It wasn’t when she called her assistant the wrong name for the tenth time, the constant dwelling on something new, the overthinking regarding Paris, when Miranda realised that she missed her.  
When she saw the new assistant and didn’t care about her abilities, much more about her looks. Her long dark hair and brown eyes, her slim figure. But there was always something off. Her hair wasn’t as soft as hers. It didn’t smell like lavender. Her brown eyes were the wrong shade of brown. Not quite chocolat, not walnut. Just wrong.  
Her physique wasn’t as perfect. She was slim, but too slim around her legs, her waist was too toned and her fashion style was vintage, but not thrift store vintage, high fashion vintage.  
But just for a moment, when Miranda looked at Alexandra, how she brought coffee, she imagined her there.  
The smart girl with her silky, unbrushed hair and bright eyes in the right shade of brown; syrup. Eyes so daring and inviting yet so scared when Miranda sighed in disappointment.  
Her slim physique which had the right amount of curves in the right places. Her thrifted fashion, wearing clothes her mother probably gave her.  
When Miranda saw her in the streets of New York again, when she drove the same route, hoping to see her waiting by the corner, drinking coffee. The route cost her two minutes. Two minutes in which she could’ve ordered Alexandra around.  
That girl had the audacity to correct her. 

_“My name isn’t Andrea. It’s Alexanda. My friends call me Alex.”  
“We aren’t friends, are we?”  
"Right.” ___

______Miranda gave her unsolvable tasks, all of which the new girl solved. Alexandra should’ve failed.  
But she never did. She always had that stupid grin on her face. When she gave her the unfinished Harry Potter manuscript, when she brought the right skirts, and gave her the book.  
The woman noticed how she drifted away from Alexandra. That stupid girl hasn’t solved anything. Nothing remarkable.  
Nothing for which Miranda would call a newspaper company to tell them how smart and hardworking she is.  
Alexandra was just a copy. A fading image of the woman Miranda would never admit to miss.  
“Here’s your coffee-” That was the moment. The moment she could fire her. She watched as the hot liquid fell out of Alexandra’s hand, onto her table, her magazines and finally herself. She hissed in pain and stood up. Her assistant ran into the kitchen, grabbing paper towels. Emily joined in and they tried to clean up.  
“I am so sorry, Miranda. I didn’t mean to- I’m so sorry, I will replace the dress.”  
The tears she tried to suppress didn’t come from the burning sensation on her hands and stomach, they came when the girl touched her hand.  
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”  
She backed away, didn’t say anything.  
“I will call and demand a new dress and photos. I’m sorry!” Alexandra yelled in tears as Miranda grabbed her coat and covered her ruined dress. She stormed out of the building into her waiting taxi.  
“Home”, she said, covering her face with her sunglasses.  
She hated the fact that she was crying. She never did. Once, when Stephen divorced her.  
When she was sitting in the hotel room on her own. When she asked, if she was okay, if she needed anything, she pushed her away.  
She pushed her on dry land while lying in an ocean, waves crushing in on her, the blue filling up her body. Staying would’ve been enough. But Miranda ordered her away. Again.  
She cried a second time, she even remembered the date. 28th March after Paris. _ _ _ _ _ _

______When she arrived home, she quickly stormed in and shut the door. It took nine words and a soft brush on her hand for her to drown in regret again.  
She couldn’t break down, not like this.  
So she ran up the stairs into her library and allowed herself to remember.  
To remember everything she swore to forget.  
She’s not like this. She doesn’t depend on others like that.  
She depends on her assistants, sorting out her perfect day. But she doesn’t need anyone to stay, she doesn’t let herself be vulnerable.  
She’s spent years trying, succeeding, perfecting her coldness. How to only let in what she wants to let in. Keeping everything else locked up.  
She has boundaries because she knows how people lie, change their minds and leave her. She isn’t soft and trusting, rather cautious, analytical. It never once occurred that she’s locked up too much, the lock would break and let out every emotion she thought she would never feel again.  
But she managed to get her every time.  
With her, she was naked, vulnerable and soft. She tore down every wall she’s been building up, and now Miranda was attached to the idea of her being around. Of her looking out for the woman and being there, gifting her a smile. And, not wanting to admit, it kills her to know someone so little could have such power over her. Over her work, her life and heart.  
She needed her in ways that are new to her._ _ _ _ _ _

______They never spoke, never made eye contact.  
But it felt so good. So good to be with Andréa. Born in grey but still, she tried her best. Miranda overheard drunk conversations about her childhood, her parents being disappointed she didn’t study to become a lawyer, but she tried everything.  
Brown, soft hair to her waist. Her porcelain face with the bright smile and red lips.  
Her beautifully manicured nails, holding onto Miranda’s coats. Her cheeks, touched by a red, blooming rose. Only Miranda could dream to hold them with her warm hand, telling her about everything and nothing.  
She tried, at least she thought she did. The woman gave her the opportunity to grow. Miranda was rough, she knew, she had to keep her safe, if she wanted to make it in the industry. But she couldn’t, she couldn’t keep her safe and she ran away.  
Oh, Andréa. Why did you leave me?  
A thought keeping her awake, a thought distracting her from her work.  
She missed the way she used to eat her breakfast. So careful with the way she held her food, not wanting to drop anything. But she did, there was always a crumb of her bread that stuck to her perfect velveteen lips. Her lips designed by Aphrodite herself, finished with that stupid grin of hers, which Miranda rarely got to see. But when she saw it, her lips shaped to perfection, it stayed on her mind for the rest of the week, wondering when she would be gifted another. _ _ _ _ _ _

______She kept away from the sun. But she failed to know that she was the sun. She was glowing, more and more everyday. Trying to do her best, cheering up her colleagues and even Miranda.  
She never took credit except that one time. That one time she was proud of herself, when she smiled so brightly. But then she was so cold, chill to the bone.  
Her cold fingers warming on the coffee. Miranda noticed, when she brushed her fingers by accident.  
Only she could keep her warm, she could keep her on track, doing what is right. Hopefully warming her in one way or another.  
She would do anything. Anything to feel her warm embrace, her cold fingers against her own, warm hands, to smell her hair, scented of lavender and pine mixed with a cheap perfume.  
To see the way her clothes were resting on her creamy skin, slowly rising and falling with every breath she took. She would do anything to experience her comforting smile once more.  
Now she’s gone. She ran away, never turning back. Miranda should’ve ran after her.  
She should’ve yelled after her. Don’t leave me. Come back. I need you. All these thoughts racing in her mind that day.  
Somewhere far away, they would be better. In another time, in another room.  
But now she was gone, and Miranda wondered where she went wrong. When did she push her over the edge?  
When was she so horrible to that poor girl that she decided there was no way but to run away?  
How much was already on her mind and one thing Miranda did, just one, made her fall.  
She always asked herself the same questions;  
Where did she go, was she okay, is she happy now?  
She couldn’t control the girl, she couldn’t monitor what she did.  
It wasn’t the fact that she fell for her. Falling for someone isn’t that easy. It takes time.  
But she did, she fell, scraped her knees like a child, bruising her heart a little more, pushing her away, still needing her. But she never found her way back up.  
All that Miranda was able to do is read her articles and watch her while she hurried to the subway.  
All this thinking, wondering what caused her to run, left her with a new thought.  
A thought, she knew would not leave her.  
Andréa, were you ever mine?_ _ _ _ _ _

______She couldn’t take it. She couldn’t just sit in the silent house filled with her sobs and thoughts, with her ruined dress full of coffee, with her smudged mascara and shaking lips.  
Miranda held onto a new thought, dream even.  
She went to the bathroom, washed away the sorrow and dread.  
She put on the dress, the black dress she liked so much. The same coat she left her in and exited her house.  
She didn’t bother to call her driver, she just ran through New York as the skyline fell. She tried to make sense of it all. Trying to be reasonable on why she was hurrying through a city.  
She came to a stop, breathing in the little courage she had and straightened her dress.  
She turned around when footsteps approached.  
“Miranda?”  
She was back in Paris. Back on the steps surrounded by merely shadows of photographers. All she saw was her. Her bambi eyes and brown hair in waves. Her defined physique and vintage clothing.  
It has always been her.  
“Oh, Andréa.”_ _ _ _ _ _


End file.
